


Requiem For the Sake of Sanity

by serpentlad



Series: Requiem For the Sake of Sanity [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/F, F/M, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Self-Indulgent, Trigger Warnings Will Be on Individual Chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-23 13:00:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19701886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serpentlad/pseuds/serpentlad
Summary: In truth, it was also rather beautiful. He hadn’t seen snow, not in his ten-and-five years of life, and neither had his siblings; not with this sort of volume, at least. Sweet summer children, the lot of them, and they lived like it – there was no shortage of praising the sun’s kiss on their island off the coast of Westeros, where people mingled about and basked in the light like they worshiped that instead of the Old Gods. They might as well, Asvin realized, but even the sun was second only to vice in their infamous homeland.In which the scorned members of a once-traitorous House strives to fix their relations with their liege lord, and ends up doing far more.





	Requiem For the Sake of Sanity

**Author's Note:**

> A sort of housekeeping work to be read as a prelude for a series of chronological one-shots that are upcoming and wholly related. I wanted to get the initial meetings and such out of the way before jumping the gun because apparently I'm deathly allergic to pacing and would rather write important plot points as individual works.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A nervous wreck arrives in Wintefell, along with his siblings: Resting Bitch Face and Discount Batman.

In truth, he didn’t know what to make of Winterfell. None of them did.

It was like the sun had shied away at the wake of snow, capping the dirt their entourage walked upon even when summer was in full swing. There wasn’t the normal clop of horse hooves connecting with dry dirt or gentle rustling that came with grass, instead, each footfall was silent given the soft layer of crisp snow cushioning it. Peering out the window, Asvin swore there was even snowfall, but the coach’s windows have misted over and there wasn’t much he could gauge from what little he could see.

In truth, it was also rather beautiful. He hadn’t seen snow, not in his ten-and-five years of life, and neither had his siblings; not with this sort of volume, at least. Sweet summer children, the lot of them, and they lived like it – there was no shortage of praising the sun’s kiss on their island off the coast of Westeros, where people mingled about and basked in the light like they worshiped that instead of the Old Gods. They might as well, Asvin realized, but even the sun was second only to vice in their infamous homeland.

Now, if it weren’t so damn cold, Asvin could come to appreciate the North as much.

Across him, Lylia shifted uncomfortably once more and worried at the furs of her coat. Despite having been fashioned from the pristine pelts of direwolves – or so they’ve been led to believe – it was distastefully gray and drab, and contrasted poorly with their darkened pallor. Far too light and muted for sunkissed, brown skin, they fit the pale mainlanders better. Thumbing his own coat’s sleeve, Asvin noted he missed the soft feel of silk from his favorite yellow doublet, preferring the thin velvet overcoat he’d wear above them, and then he mused that such wardrobe would be considered garish among the North’s pure white palette.

Lylia, as it seemed, was more unwilling to let go of their homeland’s fashion sense. Under her furs, she already donned her favorite jade summer gown, trimmed with glittering gold. The girl was five years his junior but liked to throw herself into the throes of parties more than her two older brothers combined. She expected feasts to be flourishing in Winterfell’s keep in anticipation of their arrival, awaited the food and other such pleasures even when she had not yet been given to drink. That didn’t mean she was in unawares regarding the taste of wine, though – children of the Tropics were often given to drink at eight, excluding some nobility. Lylia, true to her nature, wriggled out of that exception and escaped by the skin of her teeth.

Beside her, Somma curled in on himself, having dozed off since he clambered from his horse into the carriage.

“It’s too cold,” he’d muttered while he did so earlier, ignoring Lylia’s squawking when he tracked snow into the coach. He’d since fallen asleep, content with what little warmth they shared in their personal little horse-drawn box and ignoring Lylia’s tirade of complaints that followed. He wore furs as well, though was bundled up in more layers than his siblings; it was perhaps following his decision to follow the entourage on horseback, and it would have been unbecoming if their House’s heir apparent froze to death in their liege lord’s lands. Drawn to close, the garments he wore underneath were near-invisible, but Asvin saw him wearing a white tunic trimmed with gray when they disembarked their ships that morning. It was as uninspiring and lackluster as the North, but it could be mistaken for wearing their liege lord’s colors instead of Somma’s crippling sense of practicality and laziness above that. If he’d just let Lylia – or even Asvin – pick out his clothes, he wouldn’t resemble the dreary mainlanders so much.

The snow Somma brought in had since melted, leaving a puddle on the floor. Lylia nudged it with the tip of her slippered toes and grimaced.

“Seven be damned,” she cursed. “Look at that! So little snow, so much water. We may as well be drowning.”

Asvin agreed. “It seems our Stark brethren are already drowning in this weather.”

Lylia barked a laugh, not at all concerned with the concentration of people who have gathered outside to spectate them and their escort of knights and retinue of diplomats, each sporting the sigil of House Rictor on their shields or pinning their robes in place; a red eagle enclosed in yellow sun-rays, upon a field of verdant green. Gaudy and lurid, yet Asvin would not have it any other way. Asvin picked at his sleeve again. He missed wearing his colors, but in this weather, his doublet would hardly protect him from the obnoxious temperature.

“Seven, look at that,” Lylia swore again, ladylike attitude be damned. She gave a pointed glare at the townsfolk, aware they could see her as well as she could see them. “The snow on their clothes – Gods, how many layers are they wearing? It looks suffocating.”

“All in the name of practical use, I suppose,” Asvin offered with a smile. Back at home, there were only two offshoots of the island that gained as heavy snowfall as the mainland. The capital was there, once, to assimilate with the North’s cold image, but they could only keep up the facade for so long. As it were, Asvin rarely ever went there anymore, from both personal and diplomatic preferences. If he didn’t know better, it would have been overrun with crannogmen already. “It wouldn’t do if the Starks lost all their people to cold.”

“Winter is coming,” Lylia mused, quoting the Stark’s words. “Look at them. They probably hate the cold as much as we do, but they still make it as if they worship the snow.”

“The sun sometimes gets too much back home as well,” Asvin pointed out. Essos’ eastward sun skipped the entirety of their west to bathe the Tropics, it seemed, and was far too happy in doing so. They couldn’t get sunburnt even if they tried, but at this rate, they’d become darker than the Martells. Asvin would prefer if they didn’t stick out too much among their fellow Northmen, but that seemed unattainable at this point. They were already a joke, and what happened a year back only served to enforce that jest and coat it in venom. The thought turned ugly at the last notion, giving Asvin’s throat a nasty clench.

Lylia tapped her knuckles, bringing Asvin from his own mind. They were drawing close to the keep now, and in no time, would be facing the Starks.

“It isn’t like we worship the sun.”

It was then the gray bundle that was their brother began shifting, and Somma’s head of chestnut curls unearthed from beneath his crossed arms.

“It isn’t so for the Starks and their words, too.” Lylia scoffed at Somma’s hoarse-from-sleep voice, turning away when her brother adjusted to sit. Scowling at himself, the middle child straightened his back and rolled his neck to work out kinks. Their carriage jumped over a mound, and Somma grunted while kicking back his shoulders. “What our lord brother is trying to mean, Lyli, is you’re being a hypocrite.”

“You’d rather I bow and kowtow?” Lylia challenged like the spitfire she was. “I’m saying it like it is, Somma.”

“Keep it up, then.” Somma was impassive, as usual. “Run your mouth and get us killed.”

Asvin’s eyes went to his little brother, mouth primed to berate him when the carriage snapped to a stop. Around them, their guards on horses poured forth to spread in a file. Somma’s mount, an unnamed silver pony, was led away from the carriage’s door and replaced by one of their knights. Asvin recognized him; Ser Anna, their master-at-arms. The siblings watched as he opened the door, careful, then poked his head inside. He was covered head-to-toe in plate armor, but the undergarments were light enough he was visibly shivering.

“Milords, milady,” he said, stepping back to allow them their leave. Asvin thanked him, Lylia rolled her eyes. Somma pressed his fist against his mouth and burped.

“Stuff it,” Lylia told her brother. Somma glared at her and burped again – for a blissfully silent moment, Lylia glowered at him. Sensing a disturbance brewing his younger siblings, Asvin got up from his seat and shook the carriage in his haste; Lylia was quicker, lunging for Somma, but the latter proved once more to be a fleet-footed wind as he leaped the opposite way. Resigned to holding Lylia back by her forearms, Asvin glanced over his shoulder as Lylia’s disgruntled scolding turned to howling laughter.

Apparently, they’d all misjudged the depth that snow can accumulate into – it wasn’t simple sheens coating dirt, like a thicker mist, but leagues deeper. Somma stood with his arms outstretched from using the carriage’s door frame to propel himself out, and as a result, sank himself half-calf-deep into the snow. His arms remained spanned out in his shock, and he acted with sheer appalling that made it seem like he’d already frozen in place. Asvin misjudged his humor, as well, as a bemused snort escaped through his nose before he could think. That seemed to wrench Somma from his reverie, as he whipped around to tell his siblings what’s what – he only moved upward his waist, further fueling Asvin and Lylia’s glee – but stopped short before he could turn the entire way. In a sudden rush, he dusted himself and lifted up a boot, sinking it into the snow in front of him until he could stand astride the carriage. While it took him some difficulty, he managed to root himself into place and cast his brother and sister a dire look. Lylia’s cheeks were still flushed from laughing, and she climbed out of the carriage first; Ser Anna thought to help her as she clumsily stumbled into the snow, and when she looked up, the same dumbstruck look happened upon her face.

As Somma stared down at his feet and Lylia fussed with her somewhat-disheveled hair, Asvin gripped the carriage’s frame and politely declined Ser Anna’s extended hand. He dropped into the snow, and after minimal wobbling, forced himself upright and faced the way his siblings did.

Almost immediately, a laugh tore through the silence like a whip.

Asvin gaped as another childish, tinny voice joined in, and shut his jaw when a different timbre shushed them.

They stood in a row, backed by their own small retinue, the older ones smiling while the younger ones snickered and grinned among themselves. The Starks and their men stared them down, and unconsciously, Asvin’s attention flickered to the guards who glared like the Rictors were feral wildlings, eyes brimming with hate. That pricked more goosebumps than the cold did, but it wouldn’t do to show weakness when they already embarrassed themselves – Asvin cleared his throat and took the first step forward.

As if a hive mentality, the three siblings approached, and Asvin gulped down the sudden self-consciousness rising in his throat, burning it like bile. Eddard and Catelyn Stark scrutinized their every step, but not unkindly – there was an ounce of impatience in the lady’s gaze, but Asvin was grateful that she was courteous enough to not voice it. The smaller Starks – what were their names, Arya? Brandon? – watched them closely, an amused expression to their faces. When Catelyn’s face contorted into that of caution, Asvin found himself preferring the children’s reaction.

“Milord,” Asvin said, and was immediately at a loss as he realized he couldn’t bow with all the snow. Face burning and heart pounding against his ribcage, he bent low, not missing the way his skin blistered with the weight of eyes upon him; the Starks with their suspicion and curiosity, their men with their contempt and ridicule, and Somma and Lylia so they could follow his example. He wanted to reach for his sleeve, snap the elastic around his wrist against his skin to stop that prickling itch blooming from his chest. Or distract from it, at least, but a booming chuckle did the job for Asvin just fine.

“Rise, Lords and Lady Rictor,” Ned Stark said, smooth and velvety rolling off his tongue with a level of kindness Asvin didn’t expect. They obeyed, and Asvin willed his face to stop going hot. A cold breeze whipped through them in time, catching his corkscrew curls in the wind, and Asvin found himself thanking the Gods while scrambling for words to say. Silence followed as they straightened their backs, and Asvin took a moment to survey the assortment of dark-haired and pale-faced Starks. The oldest girl – Sansa, who wasn’t much taller than Asvin’s midriff – stood out, with her bright crimson Tully hair. When Asvin’s eyes reached her, their gazes connected, and the girl shyly averted her stare. Asvin assumed in doing that she clapped eyes with Somma instead as the boy stood parallel to her, as she cast her eyes downward with a red face and blooming girlish smile. Asvin heard a quiet laugh and turned his attention toward the boy standing beside Sansa.

Robb. This one, Asvin remembered clear as day. They’d glimpsed each other, before the chaos that befell last year, and while they never talked they’d seen enough of each other to recall an approximation of the other’s face. At least, Asvin did – those eyes, kind as his father’s but with youthful flame, had matured, with features filling in to suit his facial structure, similar to Asvin himself. Robb was a year or two younger, a few months older than Jon Snow – Ned’s bastard that Asvin barely saw, even when Robb was present.

Now, he wore a practiced but sheepish smile when Asvin noticed him. Returning it, Asvin fixed his gaze on Ned, worried his smile was still tremulous.

“Thank you again, for receiving us.”

“It is no trouble. Hospitality is one of the most basic demands from common sense.” Ned’s smile tugged and threatened to become wider, but he contained it. “I raised my House to abide as much.”

Of course; if it weren’t for Ned’s stifling sense of honor, someone would have shanked Asvin with a rusty shiv already. He fielded the urge to clench his fingers, wanting to reach for the sword hanging from his hip just in case. The Stark guards, while placid, threw him hungry glances sometimes. It wasn’t a violation of guest right, Asvin knew, their scorn was in the right. The Gods loathed traitors more than They did impolite decorum.

Asvin couldn’t hold back the urge to fumble with his sleeve anymore, but he hid it under the guise of crossing his wrists. His teeth snagged at his bottom lip as he held back the urge to grin; that would only serve to show his nervy state more. He didn’t dare shoot a cursory glance at his siblings, but he could already feel Lylia’s impatience rolling off in waves, kept at bay by her stony sense of ethics. Somma was harder to read, but it was only a matter of time until he yawned.

“I should hope the mainland has treated you well, so far,” Ned continued to fill the silence when tension began to build. Asvin bit back an unpleasant remark, but his smile tightened nonetheless. He hoped it didn’t look as if he was grimacing.

“Of course. I missed its charm, it’s certainly… endearing.”

By some miracle, Lylia managed to not snort. The surprised look Arya gave her, though, told Asvin Lylia was not above rolling her eyes. Thankfully, Catelyn and Ned’s gaze were focused on him. Ned confirmed this as he chortled.

“You don’t have to become so excited on my account,” he japed, earning a sharp look from his wife. It was ignored, as he turned to wave one of his men closer. After muttering some words to his knight that Asvin couldn’t decipher, he passed Asvin another smile. He was bountiful when it came to respecting. It was hard to believe that Ned thought Asvin deserved any of it, that his House deserved any of it and had not been ambushed by a volley of arrows the moment they reached the ports. Ned’s gaze softened as if he could read the shame on Asvin’s face. The maesters in the Citadel always told Asvin that ‘boys wear their hearts on their sleeves’, and they expressly told Asvin that for a reason.

“Ser Asley here will show you to your quarters,” Ned gestured at the knight, and when Asvin examined the knight warmth swelled in his chest. To his surprise, Ser Asley wasn’t among those who glared at him like a predator would its prey – to speak the truth, his face was the kindest among them all. He also looked barely older than Asvin, with stubble on his face and freckles spread across a smooth-skinned face, not a pockmark visible.

Despite Ser Asley’s apparent youth and mild temperament, however, heavy footsteps sounded behind the Rictor siblings and a figure fell in beside Asvin. Without his helmet, Ser Anna’s impressive mustache twitched.

“If I may accompany them, my Lord, I would be ever grateful.”

Ned’s mouth twitched into an almost fond smile. “Of course you may, Ser. The rest of your men may follow to the barracks, and your diplomats will be shown to their tower once discussions have finished.”

Ned faced Asvin next, and Asvin fought the urge to scrub down the red from his cheeks.

“Can I expect to see my Lords and Lady in the feast, following court?”

Asvin’s thumb pressed into the opposing knuckle and nail bit into the skin with how hard he drove it in his anxious state. His mouth fell open prematurely before he found his words, and it was like someone drove an icicle into the orifice and pierced him through the back of his head. An ache blossomed there, branching down to his neck. His body simply loved taking every dark thought he had and transforming it into pain, it seemed.

“Of course, my liege,” Asvin began, and pushed back the want to bite his tongue and stop talking when he wasn’t finished. “But…”

Ned raised a brow, which only fueled Asvin’s rampant nervosity. He pressed his thumb’s nail further into his skin until it sang. “I… would like to join the court proceeding, my Lord. As is my responsibility as Head of House.”

Whatever he said must have struck a chord in Catelyn Stark, as her face phased through both sympathy and errant suspicion in quick succession. In the end, she looked to her husband, who afforded Asvin with a subtly pleased expression.

“Why, I would expect nothing less of you, Lord Asvin.”

There was no insult in his tone; by all rights, it was welcoming and warm, even inviting Sansa to look up with doe eyes filling with something like infatuation. The words, however, felt like it drove an icepick through Asvin’s heart and left a hole that rendered him breathless. He couldn’t afford to lose his composure in front of the Starks, however, so his shock channeled into the nail pressed to the skin to shift suddenly and tear open the skin. Asvin could feel the blood, liquid to touch, and wiped it. There was bound to be more, but he would deal with it later, in privacy. To his relief, none of the Starks seemed to realize.

That was until Arya Stark’s straying gaze flitted to his fists and widened. “He’s bleeding.”

“Oh.” the sound was wrestled from Asvin’s throat beyond his control, and surprised by his own impulse and the sudden scrutiny of everyone present – including his siblings’ – he was reduced near to a floundering fool. “I-I-ah-”

“I’ll take him to Maester Luwin.” A scratchy voice offered. A boy’s voice – Robb’s voice, Asvin realized, when the boy stepped from the line his family gathered in. Ned only offered a proud look at his son in response, and at the sight of the boy approaching Asvin, the latter’s throat almost closed up again.

“It’s fine,” Asvin tried to reason, bleeding assurance into his tone. “Just a measly scratch is all.”

He tried to snatch his hand away, but Robb somehow sensed it as he captured Asvin’s wrist with a firm grip. It wasn’t like Asvin would break it trying to pull back, but doing so in front of Robb’s entire family would only reflect upon him badly. Robb’s hand was gloved, and warm, a far cry from Asvin’s own bluing hand. It turned Asvin’s hand around and spread his fingers with surprising gentleness, the skin where Robb’s thumb ghosted over flushed a meek red. He tested the wound, and to Asvin’s surprise, it seemed like he’d opened the skin and pushed aside flesh to reveal its gross pink hue. A hiss escaped Asvin’s clenched teeth, but it didn’t seem to deter Robb. He glanced up at Asvin, who was a head taller.

“I’m taking you to the Maester,” he repeated, then turned to his father. Ned shrugged.

“You may take your leave.”

Robb smiled, and his eyes flickered back to Asvin. He began walking toward the huge doors, and Ser Asley shuffled to follow. Forcing his eyes to remain upward and not on the ground, Asvin gave the Starks one final tight smile before following his siblings and Ser Anna, who tailed after Robb.

But despite the number of people following him, when Robb glanced over his shoulder, his eyes found Asvin’s on purpose. Dark brown meshed with molten hazel, youthfulness equal but on opposite sides of the spectrum. With Robb it was fire, with Asvin it was wariness.

Asvin gulped and snapped the elastic on his wrist against his skin. A fresh wash of blood pricked forth from his knuckle’s wound, as if perturbed by the act, and splashed upon the snow, stark red upon pristine white.  



End file.
